Page 87 of The Bridesmaid
‘It’s a hidden bar,’ I explain. ‘Set in the old panic room where Adrianna was held. It would be the perfect place to shoot a high drama scene if you could get the lighting. I have to be at the bachelorette now, but we’re due at Fortune House later …’
‘You need to get there,’ says Max. ‘Like I told you in New York, we had a tip-off. Simone had some documents which she planned on revealing. Something that would smash the Kensingtons apart.Sounds like you cracked her hiding place.’ I can almost hear his grin over the phone.
My stomach lurches. ‘I can’t do that to Leopold,’ I tell him.
‘Then it looks like the world is about to get a very different idea of Petra Morka.’
I put a hand out to steady myself, breath catching. I feel like I might actually vomit.
‘I can get there,’ I babble. ‘Easily. Tonight. I just need to slip away from the party while no one is watching.’
There’s a long moment where I think he might have just hung up.
‘I’ll give you until midnight,’ he decides. ‘If those documents really do reveal why Adrianna was kidnapped, it will be front page all over the world.’
‘I’ll get them,’ I promise. ‘Midnight.’
Chapter Seventy
HOLLY
The schoolhouse is cool and dark inside. Plain wooden desks are set in tidy lines. Everything is old. Heavy. Built to last. My eyes track to the Kensington family crest, cut into the stone at the back.
‘Kensington Manor School,’ I say. ‘This was the first. Before the family founded the famous one in New York.’
‘How come this one closed?’ asks Fitzwilliam.
‘Something involving the pit of bones outside?’ I suggest.
As we walk toward the back of the schoolhouse, I can see a photograph of a woman, looking somberly down on the desks. She stands amid her pupils, wearing black schoolmistress robes, and a stern expression.
The inscription beneath reads:
Margaret Kensington. Founder of Kensington Manor School. 1953
‘I recognize that woman,’ I point. ‘She’s in a portrait up at Fortune House.’
The photograph shows twenty or so young women, arranged in unsmiling rows. They can’t be much older than sixteen, in heavy fifties pinafores. The schoolmistress stands glowering in the center.
‘The girls,’ I say, looking at their sad faces. ‘Their heads are shaved.’ I think for a moment. ‘Some Tropics thing, perhaps? Shaving their heads?’
We exchange wretched glances.
‘Silky’s court case details hair cutting,’ says Fitzwilliam. ‘Maybe the two things are linked.’
My eyes settle back on the picture. Fitzwilliam is looking at a cluster of little icons set on an altar, toward the front of the schoolhouse. Mary and Jesus have been inexpertly carved from wood, decorated with bright colors.
‘The Holy Trinity,’ I tell him. ‘Father, Son, Holy Ghost.’
‘Look at this.’ Fitzwilliam lifts a painted wooden carving. This one isn’t gaudy like the others. It’s black-cloaked, with a ghostly pale face. ‘Remind you of anyone?’
He holds it up in front of the portrait of Margaret Kensington.
‘It’s … a schoolmistress,’ I say. ‘But it also looks a lot like … the masked and cloaked figure who snatched Adrianna.’
‘Right.’ Fitzwilliam nods. ‘Coincidence?’
I swallow. Something about this whole set-up is gnawing at me, and I don’t know why. There’s a door at the back of the room, and Fitzwilliam moves to open it.
